“Here’s a note for you; I think it’s from Mr. Ruan,” said Judith.  “Mrs. Penticost said she thought it was.”  Judy did not add that Mrs. Penticost’s precise method of giving the information had been to snort out:  “T’young maister can’t live through the night wethout writing to she, simminly....  Poor sawl!”

Blanche read the little note through twice, a smile on her face, then pulled Judith down to her and kissed her.

“Blanche, are you ...?” asked Judy breathlessly.

Blanche nodded.

“Oh, Blanche, what is it like?  Is it as wonderful as books say?  Do you feel thrills?”

“What sort of thrills?”

“Oh, up and down your spine, I suppose!  Like I feel when I hear music.”

“Yes, it’s just like music.  It somehow sets the whole of life to music,” answered Blanche solemnly.

“How wonderful!...  Blanche—­has he kissed you?”

“Yes, last night.  Judy, a woman doesn’t know what life means till the man she loves kisses her.”

Judy sat rapt, saying nothing.  Her deep-set hazel eyes took on a look as of one who sees visions, impersonal but entrancing.  Blanche rolled herself out of bed and, going over to the glass, began to examine her skin in the white light shed from the sky in at the window.

“Bother!” she murmured; “I’m getting a spot!  Oh, Judy, isn’t that too bad just when I want to look nice?...  Of course, he’s the kind to love me just as much with a spot, but I feel I can’t love myself so much....”

“I’ll lend you some of my lotion,” said Judy, jumping up; “you can cover it over, if you try, with that and powder.  It doesn’t look anything really.  I always think one sees one’s own spots long before anyone else can, anyway.”

“Yes, that’s true; it will be all right if I can prevent it getting any worse.  You never have any spots, you lucky baby.  Just hand me the lotion ... and my dressing-gown ... thanks ever so.”  Blanche slipped on the wrapper, and going to the top of the little flight of stairs called down them:  “Mrs. Penticost ... my bath-water, please!”

No answer.

“Mrs. Pe-e-e-ntico-s-st,” called Blanche, “I must have my bath-water!  I shall die, dear Mrs. Penticost, if I can’t have my bath-water this very moment!”

From subterranean distance came a muffled voice which nevertheless enunciated distinctly:  “Die, then, damon, die....”

“Oh, Mrs. Penticost, how unkind you are!” cried Blanche, laughing.  “I don’t a bit want to die to-day.  I want to live and be happy and for everyone in the world to be happy too.”

These last remarks were addressed to the form of Mrs. Penticost toiling upstairs with the can of water.  The good lady clanked the can down and pulled out the flat tin bath from under the bed before replying, which she did over her shoulder as she was leaving the room.

“Aw!” she observed, “I’d be careful if I was you.  Be cryen before night!”